That afternoon, the government went live.
President Cyan Robertson of Dilrik appeared on screens across the nation, flanked by the minister of defense, the prime minister and a wall of soldiers in full uniform. The blue and yellow of Dilrik's flag draped heavily behind them, its colors brighter under the press lights. They all had cold and serious faces; Subrind's attack was really a blow to their guts.
The president stepped to the microphone, cleared his throat, and began.
"Citizens of Dilrik,.
Earlier this morning, the silence of our homes was shattered by the fire of Subrind's ambition. While it is claimed their missiles were aimed at our military installations, it is our people, our fathers, our daughters, and our neighbors who have paid the ultimate price.
To those of you suffering from losses or injuries, I offer you my deepest, most humble apologies. The state exists to protect you. This morning, the shield was not enough. For every life lost in the shadow of a military target, the weight of that failure sits on my shoulders. We did not want this fire at our doorstep, and we did not ask for your blood to be the price of our defense.
But let me be clear with the regime in Subrind.
You claim your targets were tactical, yet you brought those targets to the doorsteps of the innocent. By striking our facilities with such reckless disregard for the lives surrounding them, you have forfeited any right to mercy.
To the people of Dilrik: Grieve today. Hold your families close. Tomorrow, we respond heavily.
To Subrind, you have mistaken our restraint for weakness. You have struck the heart of a nation that was trying to spare yours. That time is now over and will never happen again. You have invited a storm you cannot survive, and I promise you this: by the time the sun rises, you will understand exactly what it means to have woken the lion."
---
Isaac watched the live conference from his place in Subrind.
Calling it a "place" was generous. It was not designed for human habitation at all, not to talk of a prince. Thick metallic plates lined every surface, made to withstand even the impact of a car crashing at full speed. A small and old bed sat in one corner; beside it, thick chains hung from the wall, their purpose unmistakable. A study table held a collection of books and his laptop, the screen of which currently displayed President Robertson's grim face.
There were no windows. From the outside, the structure was a sealed metal box, a place that would require a professional technician to breach. Guards surrounded it at all times, though every single one was fiercely loyal to Isaac.
It was not a residence.
It was a cage but it was very clean and organized showing just how much Isaac valued a clean space.
Isaac watched the president's speech from beginning to end, his expression unchanging. When it ended, he shook his head negatively and shut the laptop.
He had not supported this. This entire decision had been made behind his back.
The sound of the door mechanism clicking broke the silence. A moment later, the heavy iron door slid open, and a middle-aged man stepped inside.
King Draven Deema looked nothing like his son. Where Isaac possessed an almost otherworldly beauty, the king was short and pot-bellied, his face spotted and weathered. His eyes were brown. He was dressed extravagantly, in white and gold contrasting sharply with Isaac's dull dressing.
"Good day, Father," Isaac greeted, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth a child should have on seeing his father.
The King did not seem to notice. Or perhaps he simply did not care.
"You have seen the news?" he asked, not even replying to Isaac's greeting.
"I have," Isaac's eyes remained steady. "And I will tell you bluntly, you made a mistake."
The king's expression darkened. "What do you mean? This is meant to serve as a warning to Dilrik not to trifle with us."
"You used half of our military supplies to threaten them," Isaac said, voice calm as if discussing the dinner. "Do you believe they feel threatened?"
"Of course," the king's chest puffed slightly with confidence. "Cyan may put up a strong front, but no one would be unaffected by those attacks."
Isaac sighed. "You still do not understand these things, Father. Dilrik has been to war with countless nations: careless ones, strong ones, careful ones, and weak ones. They have won every time. And yet you did not think to study those wars. You did not think to understand the enemy you were provoking."
The King's expression shifted, his brow furrowing. For a moment, doubt and uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
"Do you have any idea how to salvage the situation?" he asked.
Isaac held his father's gaze. "Why did you not consult me in the first place?"
Silence.
The King's jaw moved, but no answer came. He could not admit the truth: that he feared his own son's intelligence, feared that Isaac would manipulate him, betray him, and seize everything the King had spent a lifetime building. The thought was absurd. Isaac was completely under his control. Wasn't he?
"Never mind." The King waved a dismissive hand. "Do you have a solution or not?"
Without a word, Isaac reached for a folded paper on his desk and extended it toward his father.
"I have written everything I consider a solution. It is up to you to decide how to use them."
The King snatched the paper, scanning its contents. His face smoothed into satisfaction, the uncertainty of moments ago forgotten.
"That's my boy." He clasped Isaac's shoulder briefly, a gesture that might have been fatherly if there had been any warmth behind it.
Then he turned and walked out, the heavy door sliding shut behind him with a final, echoing clang.
He did not notice the disgust in Isaac's eyes.
He did not see the killing intent buried deep beneath that calm face.
As soon as he left, Isaac retrieved the pink handkerchief in his robe and put it to his nose, sniffing it heavily. He was filled with so much irritation right now that he seemed he would go nuts in the next minute.